The Sunny Side of Diplomatic Life, 1875-1912, by L. de Hegermann-Lindencrone.

Nina and I go out every morning from ten to twelve. Johan is then busy with his despatches and shut up in the chancellery. It is the fashion during those hours to drive in a cab in the Corso. It is not considered chic to go out in one's own carriage until the afternoon. I am glad of the excuse of buying even a paper of pins in order to be out in the sunshine.

Another queer fashion is that on Sundays gentlemen (the highest of the high) who have their own fine equipages, of which on week-days they are so proud, drive to the fashionable places, like Villa Borghese and Villa Doria, in cabs. Sometimes you will see the beaux most in vogue squeezed (three or four of them) in a little botte (the Italian name for cab), looking very uncomfortable. But as it is the thing to do, they are proud and happy to do it. But on other days!—horrible! Nevertheless, it is on Sundays (especially on Sundays) that Principe Massimo causes people to stop and stare because he drives abroad on that day in his high-seated phaeton, his long side-whiskers floating in the wind, his servants in their conspicuous dark-red liveries covered with armorial braid, pale-blue cuffs and collars, sitting behind him. Then it is that the Romans say to themselves, Our aristocracy is not yet dead.

Our colleagues, the de W.'s, had a loge in the Argentina Theater and invited us the other evening to go with them to see the great Salvini in "Hamlet." The theater was filled to the uppermost galleries; you could not have wedged in another person. The people in the audience, when not applauding, were as silent as so many mice; this is unlike the usual theater-going Italian, who reads and rustles his evening paper all through the performance, looking up occasionally to hiss.

Salvini surpassed himself, perhaps on account of the presence of her Majesty, whose eyes never wandered from the stage, except in the entr'actes, when she responded to the ovation the public always makes wherever she appears. She rose and bowed with her sweet smile, the smile which wins all hearts.

There was only one hitch during the performance, and that was when Hamlet and Polonius fought the duel; the latter, unfortunately, missed his aim and speared Hamlet's wig with his sword, on which it stuck in spite of the most desperate efforts to shake it off. Salvini, all unconscious, continued fencing until he caught sight of his wig dangling in the air and, realizing his un-Hamlet-like bald head, backed out into the side-wing, leaving Polonius to get off the stage as best he could.

In the entr'acte Monsieur de W. and I talked over the play, and, unfortunately, I said, "Did Hamlet ever exist?" A bomb exploding under our noses could not have been more disastrous! He burst out in indignant tones, and we almost came to literary blows in our violent discussion. M. de W. insists upon it that Shakespeare knew all about Hamlet and where he lived, the medieval clothes he wore, and that he was the sepulchral Prince with whom we are so familiar; that Ophelia was a very misused and unhappy young lady, who drowned herself in a water-lily pond; and that Hamlet's papa used to come nights and scare the life out of the courtiers.

"Wait a little," I said. "I flatter myself that I know the story of Hamlet thoroughly. I spent all last summer studying the old Danish chronicle, which was written in Latin in 1200 by a monk called Saxo Grammaticus, then translated into old-fashioned Danish, which I translated, to amuse myself, into English. If what Saxo says is true Hamlet lived about two or three hundred years before Christ."

I went on, regardless of M. de W.'s dangerous attitude: "Denmark at that time was divided into several kingdoms, and Hamlet's father was king in a part of Jutland, which, let us say, was as small as Rhode Island—"

"He probably went about in fur-covered legs and a sheepskin over his shoulders, as was then the fashion. He was called Amleth; Shakespeare simply transposed the h. He was a naughty little boy, vicious and revengeful. He despised his mother and hated his uncle, who was his stepfather."

TWO YOUNG QUEENS
From a photograph, taken in 1878, of the two daughters of the King of Denmark. They were then the Princess of Wales and the Grand Duchess Dagmar. They are now the widows of two European sovereigns, Dowager Queen Alexandra of England and the Dowager Empress of Russia. They spend their summers together in a small cottage near Copenhagen. Alexandra is on the right of the picture.

"Because his mother and the uncle, wishing to marry and mount the throne, killed Hamlet's father. Hamlet passed his youth haunted by thoughts of revenge and how he could punish the two sinners."

"It was clever of Shakespeare to let the father do the haunting and leave to Hamlet the rôle of a guileless and sentimental youth; the authorities do not agree as to whether Hamlet was really a fool or only pretended to be one."

"Fool he certainly was not," I replied. "He was clever enough to play the part of one, and he played it so well that no one, even at that time, could make out what he really was."

"Then," declared M. de W., "Shakespeare got that part of it right—perhaps you will concede that much. How about Hamlet's grave? Surely there is no humbug about that? I have seen it myself. Has it been there since two hundred years B.C.?"

"Hamlet's grave at Helsingör is an interesting bit of imagination. A unique instance of inaccuracy on the part of the Danes! Hamlet lived to be king in his little land and was buried where he died—if he ever lived—as an Irishman would say."

"How confusing you are," said my opponent. "You destroy my dearest illusions—I, who adore Shakespeare's Hamlet."

"I adore Shakespeare's Hamlet, too, but I do not adore Saxo's. Hamlet's love for his father was the only redeeming point about him. Did you know that he married the daughter of the King of England?"

"Shakespeare only mentions Ophelia, and we are led to believe that Hamlet died unmarried."

"Well," I answered, "if Saxo is right, he was married, had lots of children, and continued the dynasty till dato."

"He made himself very disagreeable at home with his silly talk and his hatred of the King and the Queen. In a conversation he had with his mother he flung away all disguise and also hurled some unpleasant and extremely unvarnished truths full in the maternal face."

"To get rid of him," I continued, warming to my subject, "the Danish court sent him to the English court with a nice letter of introduction, and at the same time sent a letter to the King of England, begging him to have Hamlet killed somehow or other, but clever Hamlet stole and read the letter and killed the messenger himself."

"The King of England gave him a fine dinner, and I think the English court must have opened its eyes when Hamlet pushed away the food, saying it was 'too bad to eat.' He told them that the bread tasted of dead men's bones and the wine of blood, and, worst of all, that the Queen was not a born lady. When the court asked with one voice how he dared breathe such an insult he answered that there were three things that proved that what he said was true."

"One was," I said, "that the Queen held up her dress while walking; another, that she threw a shawl over her head; and the last, that she picked her teeth and chewed the contents! I actually blush for the Danes when I read the account of that dinner."

"The courtiers hurried to examine into affairs and found that everything that Hamlet said was true. The poor Queen was horribly mortified, for they discovered that her papa had been a peasant."

"No," I said, "Hamlet went home with his bride, and the royal Danish court of Jutland made an enormous feast for the home-coming of the princely couple. This was the thing that Hamlet had waited for all his life. Saxo hurries over this harrowing episode. Hamlet succeeded in getting all the guests dead drunk, then he pulled the tapestries all down on top of them and set fire to the palace and burned them all up. What do you think of your adorable Hamlet now?"

"I think," said M. de W., curtly, "all things considered, that Hamlet was a damn fool!"

"I thought so too until I read the speech he made to his subjects when he mounted the throne. It was the most beautiful bit of sentiment, the tenderest tribute to his dead father, and showed his undaunted love for his country. I am sorry that Shakespeare made no mention of this."

Mr. Story, who was with us, said he once heard a lady say she did not care much for Shakespeare, because he was "so full of quotations."

Dear ____,—The King drives every day in his high English phaeton through the crowded streets, not fearing to expose himself to his people, as some other sovereigns do.

When some one remonstrated with him, "Your Majesty ought not to run such risk," he answered, smilingly: "Comment donc! C'est un des ennuis de notre métier." Everybody bows respectfully, and in return he takes off his hat and holds it at right angles, keeping the reins in the other hand. Sometimes he does not get the chance to put his hat back on his head the whole length of the Corso. His adjutant sits by his side and a lacquey sits behind, dressed in black. The King likes simplicity in all things.

The Queen drives in a landau (à huit resorts), accompanied by her lady in waiting; the servants in their brilliant red liveries can be seen from a long distance. Her Majesty recognizes every one, smiles and bows right and left; sometimes she will look back and give a person an extra smile. She says that she can see, while flying by, all the objects exposed in the shop windows, and often sends the servant back to buy what she has noticed.

When their Majesties meet in the drive in their respective equipages the Queen rises in her seat as if to make a courtesy, and the King responds in the most ceremonious manner.

Before Christmas the Queen goes about in the shops and makes her own purchases (the shops are then shut to the public). All the ladies of the court receive magnificent gifts, generally in the shape of jewels.

The King always keeps on his writing-table and within touch a quantity of rare unset stones. He likes to look at them and handle them; and then, when the occasion comes to give a present, he has the stones set in diamonds.

My dear Aunt,—We arrived here last night, and shall remain till to-morrow, when we are expected at Monza, where the King and the Queen have invited us to make them a visit.

Count Gianotti came this afternoon to tell us that we are to take the train leaving here at three o'clock. Johan and I went out for a stroll while the maid and valet were packing. We wandered through the Victor Emmanuel Gallery, then went into the ever-enchanting cathedral. I never tire of seeing this wonderful place. I pay my two soldi for a chair and sit there, lost in thought and admiration. The dimness and silence make it very solemn and restful. Every little while a procession of intoning priests shuffle by to go to some altar in one of the side-chapels for some particular service. Sometimes it is a baptism, and the peasants whose babies are going to be baptized stand in an awed group around the font. Everything is done in a most matter-of-fact way. I look at the splendid carvings and filigree of marble and wonder how any one mountain can have furnished so much marble, since it started furnishing hundreds of years ago. It is lucky that the mountain belongs exclusively to the Church!

On my return to the hotel I found a card from Countess Marcello, saying that the Queen had suggested our going to the Scala Theater, and that we were to occupy the royal box. She has just left Monza. She is lady in waiting to the Queen, and, her duties having finished for this month, she is replaced by the Princess Palavicini. She told us that there were at present no guests at Monza. She said that there are three categories of toilets: "good, better, and best" (as she put it), besides the unexpected which always arrived in the shape of court mournings, and one must be prepared for them all. When the King's sister (Princess Clothilde) is there, only severe, sober, and half-high dresses are worn. For the Queen's mother (the Duchess of Genoa) the usual evening dress, décolletée, with a train. But when the Queen of Portugal comes everything must be extra magnificent, with tiaras and jewels galore and the last things of modernity.

We arrived in the theater just as the curtain was going down on the first act. The audience stared steadily at us with and without opera-glasses. I suppose people thought that we were members of some royal family. As the performance was not interesting and I was tired, we left at an early hour. I scribble this off to you just before going to bed.

You see that I am writing on royal paper, which is a sign that we are here. Now I will tell you about things as far as we have got. At the station in Milan, Count Gianotti met us and put us safely in the carriage, which bore a kingly crown; Princess Brancaccio accompanied us. On arriving at Monza station we found Signor Peruzzi waiting for us, and an open barouche drawn by four horses mounted by postilions from the royal stables. We drove through the town and through the long avenue leading to the château at a tremendous pace, people all taking off their hats as we passed.

THE PALACE, MONZA (FRONT)
Occupied in the summer by the King and Queen of Italy.

PALACE AND GARDENS
Here the King and Queen entertained their friends. Apartments in the second story, the entire right half as seen in the picture, were occupied by the De Hegermann-Lindencrones.

In the courtyard (which is immense) the carriage stopped at the entrance of the left wing, and we entered the château, where the Marquise Villamarina met us and led the way to our apartment, telling me, as we walked along, that her Majesty was looking forward with much pleasure to seeing us, and said that we were expected at five o'clock for tea in the salon and that I was to come dressed as I was, adding that she would come for us to show the way.

I had time to admire our gorgeous set of rooms, which is finer than anything I had ever seen before—finer than Compiègne, and certainly finer than our apartment at Fredensborg.

We passed through an antechamber which led to my salon, the walls of which are covered with red damask, the curtains and furniture of the same; many beautiful modern pictures hang on the walls, and there are pretty vitrines filled with bric-à-brac. My dressing-room is entirely capitonné in blue satin from top to bottom—even the ceiling. It has long mirrors set in the walls, in which I am reflected and re-reflected ad infinitum. My bath-room is a dream with its tiled walls and marble bath. (My maid's room is next this.) My bedroom is as large as a ballroom; the curtains, portières, divans, and comfortable arm-chairs are of white satin, and in the middle is a glass chandelier fit for a Doge's palace. A hundred candles can light me when I go to bed. My bed stands on a rather high platform and has white-satin curtains hanging from a baldaquin with fringe and tassels, and a huge Aubusson carpet covers the whole floor.

Next to my bedroom is J.'s bedroom, which is also very large, with two windows, furnished in red brocade; great gilt consols support the elaborate-framed Italian mirrors. Then comes his dressing-room, which connects with his bath-room and his valet's room. Then another antechamber giving on to a corridor which leads to the great gallery.

The Marquise came to my door, and we followed her through two or three drawing-rooms before we reached the center room, which is a very large salle with a dome taking in three stories.

The Queen welcomed me most cordially and seemed very glad to see me. She kissed me on both cheeks and made me sit by her on the sofa. She was, as always, lovely and gracious.

The repast was a very sumptuous high tea—all sorts of cold meats, birds, confitures, cakes of various kinds, and sandwiches.

I asked the Queen if she had been singing much during the summer. "Alas, no!" she replied. "My voice has had a vacation, and Vera and Marchetti have also had theirs. I have been in Stresa with my mother, and in Turin, but, now you are here, we shall certainly have some music. Vera is here," and at that very moment the amiable old master appeared. We remained talking till nearly six o'clock; then we went up to dress for dinner. I had a better look at our rooms. They appeared more magnificent than before. My maid had unpacked everything, and a fire was burning brightly in my bedroom, making it look cozy, if one can make such a royal and luxurious apartment look cozy.

I looked at my bed on its platform and wondered how in the world I was ever to get in it when the time came. The sheets and pillow-cases were of the finest linen trimmed with exquisite Valenciennes, like huge pocket-handkerchiefs. Instead of blankets there was a large white-satin perfumed, sachet with a cord sewed round it, completely covering the bed.

Johan was told not to be in evening-dress suit. The King always wears a redingote and a black tie. The other gentlemen, of course, do the same. The dinner was at seven o'clock. Every one was assembled when we entered the salon. The Prince of Naples was talking with some ladies. His Gouverneur, Colonel Osio, stood near him. After a few moments the King and the Queen came in together. The King greeted us with great kindness. The Prince kissed his mother's hand, made a military salute to his father, and left the salon. He is fifteen years old now, but looks younger. He wears a uniform which makes him look even smaller than he really is. The King gave his arm to the Queen, and every one followed into the dining-room, going through the Japanese room. I should say that there were twenty people at table, J. and I being the only guests. I sat on the right of the King, and Johan sat on the right of the Queen. The dinner was delicious. We had the famous white truffles from Piemonte supplied exclusively for the King. These truffles exist only in certain forests belonging to the Crown in Piemonte. And there is only a certain kind of pigs that have the particular kind of nose that can find them and rout them out from under the ground. A pig and his nose are not enticing caterers, but nevertheless the truffles are delicious. When they are served they have rather a strong odor of garlic, but they do not taste of it in the least.

"Bien! that is a good commencement. We will have enough for the whole dinner.... I listen...."

"To begin with, we spent two months in Denmark. Then I went to America to see my mother; then to Paris; then to the Riviera; and from Monte Carlo here."

"Monte Carlo," remarked the King. "That is a bad place. I have never been there. It is out of the circuit of my official duties," he added, laughingly.

"It is a very bad place, your Majesty, if you are unlucky in play; otherwise it is a lovely place."

"No, your Majesty. I won. I won enough to bring away a hundred-franc gold piece which I keep as a fetish."

"No, no! I am only joking. I do not need anything to bring me luck." Then he changed the conversation suddenly.

After dinner we returned to the grande salle. The King and the gentlemen remained with the ladies a little while, then went to smoke in the billiard-room. As the King hardly ever sits down—or, if he does, sits on the edge of the billiard-table—the gentlemen were obliged to stand during the hour before the King joined the Queen. We ladies sat with the Queen, who entertained us with her impressions of the novels she had just been reading.

She has such a wonderful way of absorbing and analyzing that she can give you in a few words a complete and concise synopsis of the plot and all the situations, besides making clever criticisms.

It was eleven o'clock before his Majesty and the gentlemen returned from their billiards and cigars. The Queen got up, bade us good night, and left the room with the King.

I was appalled when I was ready to occupy my royal bed. It seemed to have become more imposing and more majestic than when I last saw it. I tried to put a chair on the platform, but the platform was too narrow. The only way was to climb on a chair near the bed and from it make a desperate jump. So I put the chair, said, "One, two, three," and jumped. The white-satin hangings, fringes, and tassels swung and jingled from the rebound. Once in bed, I cuddled down under the scented linen. I brought the sachet up to the level of my nose, where it hovered for just a little moment before it slid off me and off the bed.

Then commenced a series of pulling up and slipping down which lasted until I was thoroughly waked up for the night. The only way I got the better of the sachet was to balance it warily and pretend I slept.

In the morning we were served a real Italian breakfast in our room: thin Pekoe tea, a little cream, and much powdered sugar, and an assortment of sweet cakes replacing the customary English buttered toast.

Dear Mother,—I want to tell you what we did, though we did not do anything of great interest. It was such horrible weather that we could not drive out, as is the Queen's custom every day. After luncheon Signor Vera (the Queen's singing-master who accompanied us in Rome) was called in, and her Majesty and I sang our duets.

All the music from the Quirinal seems to have been transported here, and Vera knows exactly where to put his hand upon everything as it is needed. There is a new edition of Marcello's psalms which are very amusing to déchiffrer. Sometimes the Queen takes the soprano part, at others she takes the contralto.

At three o'clock the Queen went to her apartment, and I took that occasion to pay some visits to the other ladies in their different salons. We met in the grande salle for tea. M. and Mme. Minghetti arrived from Milan by the same train we came on Monday, and came straight from the carriage into the salon. The Queen seemed enchanted to see them. They are charming people. He is as delightful as he is unpretentious, which is rare in a man so celebrated as he is, and she has lost none of her fascinations, although she is a grandmother. They brought the last news from Rome, and the conversation was on politics and war; they talked so rapidly that neither my brain nor my Italian could keep pace with them. I might have told you something of interest if I had been able to understand what they said.

At seven o'clock there was a military dinner. As there were about sixty people present, the dinner was served in the large dining room. The King and the gentlemen of the household were, as usual, in redingotes and black ties, but the generals and the officers were in all their war-paint, most gorgeous to behold. I sat on the left of the King (Madame Minghetti was on his right), and next to the dearest old general in the world, who was politeness itself, and, though I suppose we shall never see each other again, he gave himself much trouble to entertain me. He told me that he had been with the King when he fought in the battle of Custozza (in the Austrian war), where the King had shown so much bravery and courage. The King, hearing what my neighbor was saying (he probably raised his voice a trifle), leaned across me, and, laughingly holding up a warning finger, said:

"Oh, your Majesty! that would never do," said my general. "Now, madame," turning to me, "shall we talk of the weather?"

After dinner there was le cercle. Their Majesties went about and talked to everybody. The King seemed in the best of spirits, laughing continually, and familiarly clapping the officer to whom he was talking on the back. Every one stayed in the salon until it was time for the military guests to take their leave.

Dear ____,—This morning I received a little word from the Marquise Villamarina: "Please put on a warm dress, as her Majesty intends taking a long drive after luncheon, and it will be chilly and damp before we get back."

We came into the salon just in time not to be too late, for their Majesties entered almost immediately.

The Prince of Naples (they call him the Principino) sat next to me at luncheon. He is very clever—unusually clever—and has a memory that some day ought to stand him in good stead. Mine by the side of it felt like a babe in arms. The questions he asked, à brule-point, would have startled a person cleverer than I am. He is very military and knows all about the different wars that have been fought since the time of Moses, and when he wished to know how many officers were killed in the battle of Chattanooga I had to confess that, if I had ever known, I had forgotten. But he knew everything concerning Chattanooga and all other battles.

When the white truffles were served (they were temptingly buried in a nest of butter) the Prince said, "How can you eat those things?"

"Oh, Monseigneur," I cried, "you must not say that word. It is a dreadful word."

I could not contradict him. I hope he will find out later that there are some words in the Bible that are not used in general conversation.

After luncheon the Queen said: "We are going to take a very long drive. You must dress very warmly." I went to my room. I had a little time before the rendezvous in the salon, and I thought perhaps I could finish my letter begun yesterday, but, alas! I could not.... I returned to the salon with everything I owned in the way of furs and wraps, and found all the guests waiting for the Queen.

The equipages here are always a la Daumon—that is, open landaus—seats for four people inside, a rumble behind, and a seat for the coachman, if there Is a coachman, but the two postilions on the four horses are seemingly all that are required. In front of the garden-side perron were the two landaus waiting. The Queen, Madame Minghetti, and Johan sat inside of the first landau. General Garadaglia and I sat on the coachman's box and manoeuvered the brake. It happened rather often that we forgot to manoeuver. Then we would get a very reproachful glance from the postilions, and we would turn the brake on to the last wrench; then we would get another look because the wheels could not move. Somehow we never got the right tension. The Queen enjoyed our confusion.

When we passed through the small villages the whole populace would run out into the streets to gaze at us.

I thought it strange that the villagers, who must have seen the Queen hundreds of times, did not seem to recognize her, and sometimes bowed to me, thinking, I suppose, that I, being on the first seat, must naturally be the first person. How different it is in Denmark! When any royal carriage passes, people courtesy, sometimes even when the carriage is empty.

The Queen ordered the postilions to go slowly through the narrow streets of the village to avoid the risk of running over the crowds of children. I never saw so many. Eight or ten at each door! They all seemed to be of the same age, and all were dressed in red calico, which made a very pretty note of color against the shabby houses. There are a great many manufactories about here, and I suppose red calico must be cheap.

We reached the palazzo before sunset. I was quite chilled through in spite of all my wraps (heavy and warm as they were) and thankful to get out of them and get a hot cup of tea.

We found the Marquise Dadda and the Countess Somaglia, who had arrived for tea. The Queen always receives her friends at this time.

Another military dinner this evening! Evidently, Monza is polishing off the military just now. It is very amusing for us, as it gives us the chance to see all the celebrities. I sat to the left of his Majesty, and he told me in a loud voice who every one was and what each one had done. He did not seem to mind their hearing. Pointing to one of the generals, he said, laughingly: "He is tout ce qu'il y a de plus militaire; even his night-gowns have epaulettes on them, and he sleeps with one hand on his sword."

Dear ____,—Signor Bonghi, the great Italian savant, arrived for luncheon to-day. He is a personality! I will describe him later. I will only say now he is most learned and very absent-minded. After luncheon the Queen wanted us to see the old cathedral of Monza, where, as you know, the famous iron crown of Charlemagne is kept. So after lunch the landau was ordered for us. Marquise Trotti (dame d'honneur) accompanied us. The Queen asked Signor Bonghi to go with us to explain things. Quite a crowd collected about the church door to stare at the court equipages. The handsome tall servants, in their brilliant red liveries, were alone worth looking at.

It is very much of a ceremony to see the iron crown. After having visited the cathedral thoroughly we were conducted down some steps to the little chapel which contains the crown. The priest is obliged to put on the robes of high mass, and is assisted by another priest and a boy who swings the censer all the time. The cappellano collected the money (twenty lire) from our party before the proceedings. (It is always well to be on the safe side.) The money question settled, the priest read some prayers, knelt many times, then ascended a little step-ladder, opened a gilded cupboard which was fastened to the wall, unlocked it, said some more prayers, and then with great reverence took out a casket, which he held high above his head, intoning a special prayer. He came down from the step-ladder, bringing the casket with him, which he opened, and we were allowed to look at, but not touch, the celebrated relic. The same ceremony was gone through when it was replaced.

Do you know that this crown was born in the year 593, and is made out of a nail supposed to be taken from Christ's cross and hammered into a ring, and is encircled by a gold band about eight centimeters wide? Outside the iron is a gold band set with soi-disant precious stones. Not much to look at, and certainly not heavy to wear.

While we were there Signor Bonghi, at the request of the Queen, copied a Latin inscription on a tomb. He translated it from the Latin and gave it to the Queen when he returned, also to me. (I inclose it.)

INSCRIPTION ON A TOMB IN MONZA CATHEDRAL

Quod fuit, est; erit peril articulo brevis horae

Ergo quid prodest esse fuisse fore

Esse fuisse fore trio florida sunt sine flore

Cum simul omne peril quod fuit est erit.

That which is, that which has been, that which shall be

Perishes in one short hour.

To what use is it to exist, to have existed,

Or to exist in time to come?

The Present, the Past, the Future

Are three flowers without perfume,

Since all perish together,

The Present, the Past, the Future.

Princess Pia di Savoya, Princess Trivulzio, Count Greppi, and others were invited to tea. After they had gone the Queen had a fancy to run out in the park without a hat, in spite of the cold and drizzly rain, and with only a light cloak. She did not mind, so no one else minded. Of course, we all did as she did, except Princess Palavicini (dame d'honneur), who had just arrived, and who asked permission that she might retire to her room in order to rest before dinner.

Dear Mother,—I try every day to get a moment to write, as you desire, but the days go so quickly and the evenings come so soon that I hardly have time to do anything but change from one dress to the other.

After luncheon this morning the King ordered some large scales to be brought into the salon, and we were all weighed. Our kilos were written in a book, and each person was asked to write his name under his kilo. This took a long time. The Queen weighs twenty kilos less than Johan. There was a twinkle in the eye of the King when General Pasi got on the scales. General Pasi is enormously tall, and big in proportion, being a good deal more than six feet and very stout. They piled on all the weights they had, but nothing sufficed. Pasi looked aghast (Could the royal board be so fattening?) … and wondered if it were not time for heroic action. And when it was found that the King had had his foot on the scales all the time every one was convulsed with laughter, especially the King, who enjoyed his little joke. The Queen's drive to-day was to the Marquise Dadda's (one of her ladies in waiting), who has a pretty villa and park near here.

We had thought of leaving Monza to-day, but the Queen wished us to stay longer, and of course we did not refuse, though my toilets were at a rather low ebb, having thought to remain only a few days.

I sat to the left of the King at dinner. He seemed very melancholy, and told me that never in his life had he had such a painful experience as he had this afternoon. A few days ago a quite young soldier had struck his superior officer and had been sentenced to death. The King said: "He is to be shot to-morrow in the barracks near the park, and this afternoon his poor mother, accompanied by the priest, came to the palace to make a last and supreme effort to obtain pardon. His mother clung to my knees and wept her soul out: 'He is my only child and only nineteen years old—too young to die. Take me instead. Sono vecchia, egli tanto giovine!' ['I am old, and he so young!'] The priest added that the boy had always been such a good son—kind and gentle to his mother—and begged that he should be pardoned." The King repeated all this with tears in his good eyes.

"No," he said, "though it broke my heart to refuse. In military affairs one must not interfere with the discipline."

"But this one," I urged, tearfully; "could there not be extenuating circumstances? Do pardon him, your Majesty. Just think what that would mean for the poor mother."

But the King, true to his ideas of military discipline, said: "No! He is condemned to die. He must die."

The King could not shake off the impression this interview had made on him, and J., who passed the evening in the smoking-room with his Majesty, said that he never saw the King so depressed as he was this evening.

The Queen came up to me directly after dinner, saying: "What were you and the King talking about? You both looked so serious and sad."

The thought of the poor young fellow who was to be shot kept me awake, and I thought at five o'clock that I heard the report of guns, but I was not sure. My imagination was so keen that I could have pictured anything to myself.

The first thing the King said to me at luncheon was, "Did you hear this morning?"

"Alas!" he said, as his eyes filled with tears, "it is too true, I hate to think of it."

We left Monza at three o'clock this afternoon, I cannot tell you how kind their Majesties were to me! The Queen kissed me good-by and said, "Au revoir à Rome."

The King gave me his arm and went down the steps of the grand staircase of the principal entrance with me and put me himself in the landau. "You do not know what an honor this is," said Signor Peruzzi—as if I did not appreciate it!

We drove to the station in state and traveled in the royal compartment to Milan.... We intended to leave for Rome and home this evening, but I feel too tired to do anything but send to you these few lines and go to bed.

To-morrow night will find us in the Palazzo Tittoni, where the children already have arrived.

Dear Aunt Maria,—Just now we are reveling in Liszt. Rome is wild over him, and one leaves no stone unturned in order to meet him. Fortunate are those who have even a glimpse of him, and thrice blessed are those who know and hear him. He is the prince of musicians—in fact, he is treated like a prince. He always has the precedence over every one; even Ambassadors—so tenacious of their rights—give them up without hesitation. Every one is happy to pay this homage to genius.

We met him the first time at M. de Schlözer's dinner. Schlözer, with his usual tact, plied him well with good food, gave him the best of wines and a superlative cigar. (Liszt is a great epicure and an inveterate smoker.) M. de Schlözer never mentioned the word "music," but made Liszt talk, and that was just the thing Liszt wanted to do, until, seeing that he was not expected to play, he was crazy to get to the piano. Finally he could not resist, and said to Schlözer, "Do play something for me!"

Then Liszt turned to me and asked me to sing. I also said, "I would not dare." Whereupon he said, "Well, since no one will do anything, I will play myself."

(The Minghettis, von Keudell, and Count Arco, Schlözer's secretary, were the guests.)

How divinely he played! He seemed to be inspired. Certainly the enthusiastic and sympathetic listeners were worthy to be his audience.

"Do you still sing Massenet?" he said to me. "Do you recollect my dining with you in Paris, and your singing those exquisite songs?"

"Will you not sing? I will accompany you," he said. "Have you any of Massenet's songs?"

Schlözer said: "That is no obstacle. I will send a servant to your house directly to fetch the music." And in a very short time the music was in my hands.

Then Liszt sat down and, turning over the pages, found what he wanted, and I sang. Schlözer was radiantly happy. There was not one disturbing element. Every one was as appreciative as he was himself—those who listened as well as those who performed.

Liszt was at his best; I mean that he could not have been better. Knowing that Count Arco sang, he insisted on hearing him. Arco at first declined, but finally yielded—there was no resisting the arch-charmer. Liszt played the "Suoni la tromba" (Arco's cheval de bataille), by heart, of course, singing himself, to help the timid singer, and adding variations on the piano.

Liszt was in such high spirits that we would not have been surprised if he had danced a jig. He threw his long hair back from his forehead, as if to throw care to the winds. Later he spread his large hands over the keyboard in protest and said, "No more from me, but we must hear Schlözer before we go." Therefore Schlözer was obliged to play. He can only improvise, as you know. Liszt sat by his side and played a helpful bass.

Schlözer ordered some champagne, and we all drank one another's healths. It was after one o'clock when we bade our host adieu. Johan and I took Liszt in our carriage and left him at his apartment in the Via Margutta on our way home.

We saw a great deal of him afterward, and he dined with us twice. The first time we asked Grieg, the Norwegian genius, thinking it would please Liszt to meet him. Perhaps this was a mistake. However, it was a most interesting evening. Mrs. Grieg sang charmingly (Grieg's songs, of course); and Liszt, with his hands folded in front of him, was lost in thought—or was he asleep? Let us say he dozed—only waking up to clap his hands and cry "Brava!" But it was perfectly wonderful when he read at sight a concerto of Grieg's, in manuscript, which Grieg had brought with him. Liszt played it off as if he had known it all his life, reading all the orchestra parts. Both these great artists were enchanted with each other, but after a while Liszt became tired of music and asked if we could not have a game of whist. To play a banal game of whist with Liszt seemed a sacrilege, but we played, all the same. I was very distraite, seeing Grieg and his wife (who do not play cards) wandering restlessly around the room, and sometimes I put on an ace when a two would have done the deed.

Liszt plays the piano better than he plays whist. I don't know how many times he revoked. Every one pretended not to notice, and we paid up at the finish without a murmur. He was delighted to win four lire and something, and counted out the small change quite conscientiously. Johan drove him home—a very tired and sleepy Liszt—and only left him at the sill of his door.

I received a very queer letter the day Liszt dined here. I copy it for you. It was from the Princess W____, a lady whose friendship he renounced when he took holy orders.

I hear that you are going to have the Master (le Maître) to dine at your house. I beg of you to see that he does not sit in a draught of air, or that the cigar he will smoke will not be too strong, and the coffee he drinks will be weak, for he cannot sleep after, and please see that he is brought safely to his apartment.

All these instructions were carried out to the letter. On another occasion Liszt wrote to me that he would bring some of his songs to try over at five o'clock. I inclose his letter. What a chance, thought I, for me to give pleasure to some of my friends who I knew were longing to see him. Although he had said entre nous in his letter, and I knew that he really wanted to look through the songs alone with me, I could not resist the temptation—though it was such rank disobedience—and said to them: "Liszt is coming to me at five o'clock. If you would like to hear him, and consent to be hidden behind a door, I will invite you." They all accepted with rapture, and were assembled in the little salon before the time appointed. The door was left open and a large screen placed before it.

Johan fetched Liszt in our carriage, as he always does. I received him and the book of Lieder, which he brought with him. (Only Johan and Nina were present.) He opened the book at "Comment disaient ils?"—one of his most beautiful songs, which has an exquisite but very difficult accompaniment. He played with fairy fingers, and we went over it several times. I could see the screen swerving and waving about; but Liszt's back was turned, so he could not see it.

After we had finished tea was served, and then he said, "Have you heard my 'Rigoletto'?"

"Well," he said, "I will play it for you. Your piano is better than the one I have. It is a pleasure to play on it."

The screen, now alive with emotion, almost tipped over. After "Rigoletto" he played "Les soirées de Vienne," and this time the screen actually did topple over and exposed to view the group of ladies huddled behind it. I shuddered to think how the Master would take this horrible treachery.

He took it better than I expected—in fact, he laughed outright. The ladies came forward and were presented to him, and were delighted. I am sure that Liszt was, too; at any rate, he laughed so much at my ruse and contrition that the tears rolled down his cheeks. He wiped them away with his pocket-handkerchief, which had an embroidered "F.L." in the corner. This he left behind, and I kept it as a souvenir.

Some days after this there was a large dinner given by the German Ambassador (Herr von Keudell) for the Princess Frederick Carl. Liszt and many others, including ourselves, were present. The Ambassador allowed the gentlemen only a short time to smoke; he gave them good but small cigars. I do not know how the great Master liked this, for he is a fervent smoker. However, as le charbonnier est maître chez lui, our host had his way and the music commenced, as he wished, very soon after dinner. Both the Ambassador and his wife are perfect pianists.

They play four-hand pieces on two pianos. On this occasion, to do honor to the famous composer, they grappled with a formidable work by Liszt, called "Mazeppa." (I fancy that Liszt is a little like Rossini, who used to say, "Jouez pour moi toute autre chose que ma musique.") Mazeppa's wild scampering over the two keyboards made our hair stand on end, but the Master dozed off in peaceful slumber and only waked up and cried "Bravo!" when Mazeppa had finished careering and the two pianists were wiping their perspiring brows. Liszt begged the Princess to whistle, and opened his book of Lieder at "Es muss ein wunderbares sein" (a lovely song) and said, "Can you whistle that?" Yes, she could; and did it very carefully and in a wunderbares manner. Liszt was astonished and delighted.

Then Liszt played. Each time I hear him I say, "Never has he played like this." How can a person surpass himself? Liszt does. He had the music of "Comment disaient ils?" in the same book and begged me to sing it. "Do you think," he said, "you could add this little cadenza at the end?" And he played it for me.

"I had better write it for you," he said, "so that you will not forget it." And he took out his visiting-card and wrote it on the back. (I send it to you.)

Liszt is not always as amiable as this. He resents people counting on his playing. When Baroness K. inveigled him into promising to take tea with her because he knew her father, she, on his accepting, invited a lot of friends, holding out hopes that Liszt would play. She pushed the piano into the middle of the room—no one could have possibly failed to see it. Every one was on the qui vive when Liszt arrived, and breathless with anticipation. Liszt, who had had many surprises of this sort, I imagine, saw the situation at a glance. After several people had been presented to him, Liszt, with his most captivating smile, said to the hostess:

"Où est votre piano, chère madame?" and looked all about for the piano, though it was within an inch of his nose.

"Oh, Monseigneur! Would you, really...?" advancing toward the piano triumphantly. "You are too kind. I never should have dared to ask you." And, waving her hand toward it, "Here is the piano!"

"Ah," said Liszt, who loves a joke, "c'est vrai. Je voulais y poser mon chapeau."

Very crestfallen, but undaunted, the Baroness cried, "But, Monseigneur, you will not refuse, if only to play a scale—merely to touch the piano!"

But Liszt, as unkind as she was tactless, answered, coldly, "Madame, I never play my scales in the afternoon," and turned his back on her and talked with Madame Helbig.

As they stood there together, he and Madame Helbig, one could not see very much difference between them. She is as tall as Liszt, wears her hair short, and is attired in a long water-proof which looks like a soutane; and he wears his hair long, and is attired in a long soutane which looks like a water-proof. As regards their clothes, the only noticeable difference was that her gown was buttoned down the front and his was not. Both have the same broad and urbane smile.

One of the last dinners with Liszt before he left Rome was at the Duke and Duchess Sermonetas'—the Minghettis, the Keudells, Schlözer, and ourselves. Lenbach, the celebrated painter, was invited, but forgot all about the invitation until long after the dinner. Then he hurriedly donned a redingote and appeared, flurried and distressed. Liszt was in one of his most delightful moods, and began improvising a tarantella, and Madame Minghetti jumped up suddenly and started to dance. Schlözer, catching the spirit of it, joined her. Who ever would have thought that the sedate German Minister to the Pope could have been so giddy! He knelt down, clapping his hands and snapping his fingers to imitate castanets. Madame Minghetti, though a grandmother, danced like a girl of sixteen, and Liszt at the piano played with Neapolitan gaiety! It was a moment never to be forgotten. Keudell's kind eyes beamed with joy. Lenbach looked over his spectacles and forgot his usual sarcastic smile. We all stood in an enchanted circle, clapping our hands in rhythmical measure.

Our good friend Ludolf, as Liszt's ambassador, asked the abbé—who has a great respect for "the powers that be"—to a beautiful dinner, to which we were invited, the Minghettis, the Keudells, and four others—making twelve in all. Madame Minghetti accepted for herself, but excused her husband, who she said was not to be in Rome that evening. Count Ludolf asked M. de Pitteurs (the Belgian Minister) to fill Minghetti's place.

Five minutes before dinner was announced, in came Madame Minghetti with Monsieur Minghetti.

"What!" cried the Count. "I did not expect you! Why did you not send me word that you were coming? We shall be thirteen at table, and that will never do."

You may imagine that this was not very pleasant for the great Minghetti, who had probably never had such an experience in all his life.

Count Arco, seeing the situation, and as a solution to the difficulty, went across the street to the club, thinking that some one could be found. Fortunately, he succeeded, and you may be sure the emergency guest was only too delighted to make the fourteenth at that table.

Liszt, as if he wished to make us forget this untimely incident, played after dinner as he had never played before. But nothing could suppress Count Ludolf—never mind where the plats were, his feet continued to get into them. Right in the middle of Liszt's most exquisite playing our irrepressible host said, in a loud voice:

"If any one wishes to have a game of whist, there are tables in the other room."

Liszt stopped short, but, seeing all our hands raised in holy horror at the thought of exchanging him for a game of whist, consented amiably to remain at the piano.

Liszt honored me by coming to my reception, brought by M. de Keudell—Liszt is always brought. Imagine the delight of my friends who came thus unexpectedly on the great Master. They made a circle around him, trying to edge near enough to get a word with him. He was extremely amiable and seemed pleased to create this manifestation of admiration. (Can one ever have enough?) There are two young musical geniuses here at the Villa Medici, both premier prix de Rome. One is Gabriel Pierné, surnamed "Le Bébé" because he is so small and looks so boyish—he really does not seem over fourteen years of age—and another, Paul Vidal, who is as good a pianist as Pierné, but not such a promising composer.

I asked Liszt if he would allow these two young artists to play some of their compositions for him. Liszt kindly consented, and the appointed day found them all in the salon. Liszt was enchanted (so he said); but how many times has he said, clapping the delighted artist on the shoulder, "Mon cher, vous avez un très grand talent.... Vous irez loin; vous arriverez," a great phrase! And then he would sit down at the piano, saying with a smile, "Do you play this?" and play it and crush him to atoms, and they would depart, having la mort dans l'âme, and overwhelmed with their imperfections. Instead of encouraging them, he discouraged them, poor fellows! Speaking of young artists in general, he said once, "Il n'y a personne qui apprécie comme moi les bonnes intentions, mais je n'en aime pas toujours les resultats."

You may believe that my artistic soul is full of joy when I can collect about me such artists as Liszt, Grieg, Sgambati, Pierné, Vidal, Mme. Helbig, and Countess Gigliucci, not to mention the Queen's Gentilhomme de la reine (Marquis Villamarina), who has the most delicious barytone voice I have ever heard—but he seems to think as little of this divine gift as if it were his umbrella. Vera (the singing-master) was prevented from coming to-day to the Queen's lesson, and Signor Marchetti replaced him. He is a very well-known composer, and has written an opera called "Ruy Blas," which has had quite a success here in Italy. The Queen and I sing a duet from it which is really charming.

Baron Renzis had some theatricals at his pretty villa in Piazza Indipendenza, in which Nina acted the principal rôle, in "L'été de St.-Martin." Senateur Alfieri (son of the celebrated Alfieri) took the part of the uncle. One of the thirteen pictures Lenbach painted of Nina was put on the stage and afterward brought before the curtain, but it created no enthusiasm—people did not think it did her justice.

One actor (a young Frenchman) had such a stage-fright that when he had to say this phrase (it was all he had to say), "Le peintre vous a diablement flattée," he said, "Le diable vous a peintrement flattée," which caused a roar of laughter and hurt Lenbach's feelings....

Massenet has just sent a complete collection of his songs—all six. I like the first two best—"Poëme d'Avril" and "Poëme de Souvenir." This last he dedicated to me. There stands on the title-page, "Madame, Vous avez si gracieusement protege le Poëme d'Avril...", etc. The "Poëme d'Hiver," "Poëme d'Octobre," and "Poëme d'Amour" have pretty things in them, but they are far from being so complete as the first ones. Massenet wrote the date of its composition on each title-page, and a few bars of music.

I took them to the Queen, and we looked them over together. She was enchanted, and thought them the most graceful and refined things she had ever heard. She said, "I envy you having them."

"Yes, indeed; very much," she replied. "But I could never sing them. You would have to teach me how. They suit your voice, but would they mine? No one can sing them as you do."

I wrote to Massenet and begged him to send the same collection to the Queen, as she had been so delighted with his songs, and added, "Don't forget to put your name, the dates, and a bar or two of music just like what you sent to me."

Most amiably he did what I asked for, and the Queen was more than pleased, and immediately thanked him through the Marquise Villamarina.

Massenet has become a great celebrity now. Twenty years ago, when he was struggling to get on in Paris, Auber and I helped him. I used to pay him five francs an hour for copying manuscripts. Now one pays twenty francs just to look at him!

Mr. Morgan, of London, has hired our good friend George Wurts's magnificent apartment in the relic-covered Palazzo Antici-Mattei. Wurts is secretary to the American Legation in Petersburg, but comes occasionally to see his friends in Rome, who all welcome him with delight. Mr. Morgan gives beautiful dinners, and, although he has as many fires as he can possibly have, the huge rooms are freezingly cold, and sometimes we sit wrapped in our mantles.

My dear Aunt,—All Johan's and my most affectionate greetings: "May the year which commences to-day bring you every joy." I am selfish enough to wish that it will bring us the joy of seeing you. You promised to make us a visit. Why not this spring?

It is six o'clock. I am sitting in my dressing-gown and feeling good for nothing. The diplomatic reception this afternoon was as brilliant as the others which I have described so often. The Queen was, if possible, more beautiful and gracious than ever. (I think the same each time I see her.) Every eye followed her. Does there exist in the world a more complete and lovely woman? To-day the Queen's dress was exquisite—a white satin covered with paillettes and beads, the court train of blue velvet heavily embroidered in silver. The tiara of diamonds, with great upward-pointed shaped pearls which her Majesty wore, was the King's New-year gift. "My Christmas present," the Queen told me.

The King seemed more talkative than usual; he spoke a long time with each person and smiled and laughed continually. Politics must be easy—like honors in whist. There is evidently no trouble in that quarter.

Dear ____,—I have permission to tell the great secret. Nina is engaged to the young Dane I wrote to you about—a Count Raben-Levetzau. He is very charming and belongs to one of the best families in Denmark. We went to the German Ambassador's (Herr von Keudell's) ball last evening at the Palazzo Caffarelli, which the King and the Queen honored with their presence. As soon as I could, I approached the Queen, who was sitting in one of the gilded chairs on the estrade which does duty for a throne, and told her of Nina's engagement. She came forward to the edge of the platform and, beckoning Nina to come to her, held out her hand and kissed her on both cheeks before the whole assemblage. Of course, the news circulated as quick as lightning. When the King heard it he came straight up to us, and I presented Frederick to him. His Majesty was most affable, and said, smilingly, to Nina:

"Are we really going to lose you? We shall miss our beautiful stella" (star). And turning to Frederick, he said: "I do not give my consent at all. I think that I will forbid the banns."

Every one crowded around Nina, eager to congratulate her. Frederick was as radiant as a new-blossomed fiancé could possibly be.

We are as busy as bees. The trousseau is being made by the nuns in the Trinita de Monti convent. The Queen sent Nina a beautiful point-lace fan with mother-of-pearl sticks. The Queen of Denmark sent her a bracelet with diamonds and pearls. Count Raben's family and all the colleagues have given her beautiful presents.

Day before yesterday was a day of emotions. In the morning we went at ten o'clock to the Campidoglio, where the magistrate's offices are and where the sindaco (the Marquis Guiccioli, a great friend of Nina's) performed the civil marriage. He particularly wished to do this en personne as a special favor. He made a charming and affectionate speech and gave the pen we signed the contract with to Nina. Then we drove home, changed our dresses, and were ready at two o'clock for the real marriage at the church.

The church was filled to the last pew. When Nina came in on Johan's arm there was a murmur of admiration. She looked exquisitely in her bridal gown, and as she turned round before descending the altar steps and threw back her veil she was a vision of beauty, and I am sure she will be a "joy for ever." All Rome came to the reception at our house.

While at Sorrento we went one afternoon to take tea with the Marion Crawfords. They have a charming villa on the rocks. They seemed very glad to see us, and showed us all over the villa and their pretty garden. "My den," as Mr. Crawford called his sunny and comfortable library quite worthy of the lion he is. They are a very handsome couple. She is as sympathetic as he is, and they both talk in the most entertaining and lively manner. We had a delightful afternoon.

I was asked to sing at a charity concert to be given in the magnificent Salle de Gardes in the Barberini Palace. The concert was arranged by all the most fashionable ladies in Rome, who with the ladies of the court were dames patronesses.

I accepted, as the Queen expressed the wish that I should. She even selected the songs she thought best for the occasion, and was present with all the court, which, of course, gave great éclat to the concert.

Every place was taken, and, enormous as was the salle, it was crammed to its limit, people standing up by hundreds. Sarah Bernhardt, being in Rome, promised to lend her aid; she recited a monologue in her soft, melodious voice, but so low that it could hardly have been heard farther than the first few rows of seats.

I sang the "Rossignol" and Liszt's "Que disaient ils?" to Sgambati's accompaniment. Madame Helbig played the accompaniment of the "Capriciosa" of Blumenthal, the one that has all those wonderful cadenzas which run rampant through the different keys. Madame Helbig is a marvelous musician. I must tell you what she did. When I was soaring all alone up in the clouds without any earthly help in that long cadenza, she foresaw that I was not coming down on the right note and changed the key from four sharps to four flats without any one noticing it, thereby saving me from dire disaster.

Any musician can change from sharps to flats, but she was reading this very difficult accompaniment almost at first sight and before a large audience. I think that it was a tremendous tour de force.

My dear Aunt,—Did you receive the newspaper cuttings I sent you describing the home-coming of Frederick and Nina? Did they not read like fairy tales?

Aalholm Castle is situated on the sea. It is one of the most historic places in the country, and seems to have been bandied back and forth to pay the different kings' debts.

Christopher II. was imprisoned here (the prisons still exist), and two more moldy and unpleasant places to be shut up in cannot well be imagined. The guards used to walk up and down in front of the aperture through which food was passed to the unfortunate and damp monarch.

Later Aalholm came into Count Raben's family (in the eighteenth century). There are, of course, all sorts of legends and ghostly stories which, as in all ancient castles, are, with the family specter, absolutely necessary. Women in gauzy drapery have been seen roaming about in dark corridors, horses have been heard rattling their chains in the courtyard. Mirrors also do something, but I forget what. However, no phantoms, I believe, have been noticed during this generation; probably the building which is going on now has discouraged them on their prowling tours and routed them from their lairs. I have watched with interest for the last three weeks the workmen who are making a hole in the massive walls in a room next to mine. The walls are about ten feet thick and are made of great boulders, the space between being filled with mortar which time has made as hard as iron.

Every king or owner of Aalholm since the time it has stood on its legs seems to have had different ideas about windows. One sees on its tired old exterior traces of every kind and every period. Some round, some a mere slit in the wall, some with arches all helter-skelter, without any regard to symmetry or style.

Each owner made his window, and each successor bricked it up and put his window in its place. The building is very long, with two towers. It looks at a distance like a huge dachshund with head and tail sticking up. There is a chapel in one wing, which no one ever enters, and there is a theater in another wing, where in old times there were given plays.

The park is beautiful beyond words. You come across some old graves of vikings, of which nothing is left save the stones they used for the making of them. The treasures that they contained have long since been removed by a wise government in order to fill the national museums. Many gold and silver coins have been picked up in the grounds, and are turned to use by making tankards and bowls, and very pretty and interesting they are. On the walls of the large hall there are inscriptions which were made in the sixteenth century to commemorate the visits of different monarchs. King Frederick II., 1585, must have had many friends with him. Like our modern guest-book, each guest left his name and motto, which was painted on the walls, with his motto and his particular sign, such as a mug or a rake (I hope these did not refer to his personal attributes). One that King Frederick wrote seems to me to be very pathetic, and makes one think that his friends must have been ultra-treacherous and false. It reads: "Mein hilf in Gott. Wildbracht allein ist treu." ("God is my help. Wildbracht [the name of his dog] alone is faithful.") Don't you think that has a sad note in it?

AALHOLM. BUILT IN 1100
In 1585 some changes were made and from time to time windows have been cut through the walls.

Left: "My hope is in God. Wildtbragt [his dog] alone is faithful.—Frederick II., King of Denmark and Norway."

Those below were made by members of the court, who attached their individual marks instead of signatures.

Dear Aunt M____,—Just think what luck I have had. They say that everything comes to those who wait, and what I have waited for has come at last. I have seen and made the acquaintance of Verdi, the famous. He always stops at this hotel, because he is a friend of the proprietor's, Mr. Spatz, who, knowing my desire to meet Verdi, said that he would arrange an interview. This he kindly did. Verdi received me in his salon. He looks just like his photographs—very interesting face with burning eyes. His welcome was just warm enough not to be cold. The conversation opened, of course, on music. I said that I admired his music more than that of any other composer in the world. This was stretching a point, but it brought a pale smile to his verdigris countenance (this is unworthy of the worst punster). I told him that I often had the honor of singing with the Queen, and that we sang many duets from his operas. He did not seem to be much impressed by this miracle and received it with amiable indifference.

I longed to hear him talk, but with the exception of a few "veramentes" and "grazies" he remained passive and silent. By way of saying something he asked me if I had heard Tamagno in "Othello."

"Yes," I said. "I cannot think of anything more splendid. I never heard anything to equal him, and Monsieur Maurel is equally fine, is he not?"

After this the conversation languished, and I feared it would die for want of fuel. I felt that I had been spinning my web in vain—that I might catch some other fly, but not Verdi, when suddenly he said:

"You tell me that you sing often with the Queen. Which duets of mine do you sing?" he asked with seeming interest.